Legacy
by stress
Summary: Sequel to Diabo: It had been handed down in the Conlon family from generation to generation. Some thought it was a blessing, others a curse. But Patrick -- he just thought the key was an old, tarnished bit of metal. Shows how much he knows, eh?
1. 1841, I

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical Newsies, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Patrick Conlon & his family (with the exception of Spot Conlon) and Diana Mason & her family, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story.

* * *

**Legacy**

03.02.08

It had been handed down in the Conlon family from generation to generation.  
Some thought it was a blessing, others a curse.  
But Patrick—he just thought the key was an old, tarnished bit of metal.

* * *

Sligo, Ireland, 1841

It was cold and wet, that night, and the rain came sloshing down around him, upon him, as he ran. The feel of the slick raindrops crashing on his bare shoulders and sliding down his shirtless back was a familiar one, and he reveled in the sensation as much as he could. Of course, considering he was, in a sense, running for his life, he could not revel in the pleasantries of the sensation all that much.

The darkness surrounded him—consumed him—but bootless feet, callused and hard, kept him on his path. The feel of every stone, of every blade of rain-flattened grass was well-known to him and Seamus Conlon knew exactly where he was despite the black of night.

To the north of him, when the lightning lit up the pitch dark sky, he could see the looming shape of the Dartry Mountains; the Binn Ghulbain, sacred resting place of both Diarmuid and Grainne, was the sole witness to his flight through the countryside.

To the south of him, encircling County Sligo and trapping him along with his pursuers, the Ox Mountains stood vast and strong. The great winds of the ocean, brought on by the storm, were beating against the mountaintops. Every now and again, much to his chagrin, one of the stronger gusts would escape the mountain's grasp, plowing into him and veering him away from his planned course of escape.

In spite of the heavy rain, the fierce winds and the frantic padding of his own footsteps, Seamus could hear the very threat of those who were running after him. There were the frustrated grunts that hailed from John Sullivan, and the hollers that preceded Jimmy Finnerty's imminent arrival. He heard them and, though the slippery ground, the rain and the wind were all working against him, he tried to run all the faster for it.

How was he supposed to know that Kathleen was Jimmy's sister? Well, the last name had been a giveaway and all but if Kathleen wanted to stop by the farm, he wasn't going to send her back to her father. She had never mentioned that John was attempting to court her—was he to blame that she wanted to kiss him instead of the Sullivan brute?

John obviously thought so, as did Jimmy. And, when the two men happened upon Seamus and Kathleen down by the old Abbey earlier that evening, Seamus found out just how much he was to blame.

"Conlon, where you heading, you pogue? You'll never run fast enough!"

That's what Jimmy thought. Seamus, on the other hand, he was prepared to keep on running until he reached Sligo Bay—and even then he would keep on going. He had seen exactly what John's meaty fists and Jimmy's heavy boots could do to a fellow they believed crossed them. And, as much as he fancied Kathleen, he was not ready to lay his life down for her favor.

He was a good enough looking lad, as it was, and he was very popular with the local village girls. More often than not, one of the girls would come to ask Mae Conlon about her baking only in an attempt to spend some time in her only son's company. The loss of one's affection, even if she was Kathleen Finnerty, would not be _that _noticeable.

A farmer's lifestyle had formed broad shoulders and sturdy hands; a touch of mischief kept him lithe, limber and, thankfully, quick. Long hours in the bright Ireland sun had lent a natural tan-ish color to his normally fair skin while bleaching his hair a dark blond color; his cyan eyes, wide and staring when not narrowed in disbelief, lit up his long face, adding to his attractiveness.

Kathleen loved his eyes. And, unless he could keep ahead of the other two, he wouldn't be surprised if, the next time they met, those same eyes were swollen closed.

Seamus shuddered, sending the rain that welled on his flesh cascading down his bare back, but he continued to hurry forward. The rain, if possible, fell harder, but the Conlon boy refused to slow. It was not that he was afraid, exactly, but the odds were not in his favor—he was smarter than he appeared and he knew for sure that, if his pursuers caught up with him, he could never beat them both. One maybe—Sullivan's size could count against him—but not both; Jimmy Finnerty could be mighty quick.

Shaking his head as he continued to move forward, Seamus could only imagine what his father would say if he knew his only boy was running from a fight he had, however inadvertently, caused. It was not, usually, in the Conlon nature to run from any problems but, just then, that was the least of his worries.

Having lived in this part of County Sligo for all his seventeen years, Seamus knew the lay of the land—even in the dark—almost as well as he knew the back of his hand. And, though his attention had not exactly been on his destination, he figured out his place mere seconds before he arrived at the water's edge.

The River Garavogue was before him and, with sudden understanding, he knew he had a choice to make: he could foolishly attempt to cross the storm-ravished waters of the winding river and search for sanctuary on the other side or he could continue on the straight path, skirting the river's edge, and pray that, sooner or later, Sullivan and Finnerty would just give up.

He allowed himself a second to entertain that notion before snorting in absolute disbelief. Neither one of the men was known for mercy or defeat. They would _never _give up; like hounds, once they had the scent, the chase was on and would only end in blood.

Seamus swallowed and eyed the dark waters. It was not _that_ wide of a river and, from a childhood of wading during the hot summer days, he was familiar with its depths. If he was quick about it, he could probably make it. And, besides, the two goons chasing him would never expect that he'd chance surviving the Garavogue.

The sound of Sullivan's heavy feet hitting the slick grass behind him was fainter than it was before and Finnerty's taunts were whispers on the wind, drowned out by the storm but they were undoubtedly still on his trail. There was not much time to devote to making such a decision so, with a deep breath, Seamus prepared to jump into the river.

"_Cuidiú_! Help!"

And promptly stopped as he stared down into the quickly streaming waters. He was not, exactly, sure that he had heard anything—fish, as far as he knew, did not call for aid—and he let his eyes rove across the river. Though he did not know what he expected to find, he did see something and, before he could think better about what he was doing, Seamus leapt into the river.

There was… well, it could be said that it was a man, if a man could be only a foot high. His jacket and britches were a reddish color and it was only the hue of his clothes, in comparison to the black piece of driftwood the little man clung to, that made him visible in the dark waters. There was no hat on his head, and yellow-gold hair was stuck to the man's head; his mouth was open and whether he was attempting to cry for help or just breathe without swallowing half of the Garavogue, Seamus wasn't sure..

The driftwood was traveling downstream with the quick currents of the river, floating along the near bank. Once Seamus had joined him in the water, the Irish boy reached for the wood, took hold of it and hurriedly ferried it across the river. It was a harder task than he would have ever thought but, just then, he wasn't thinking. He was _saving _someone—some_thing_'s—life.

Once he had made it to the other side, Seamus pulled the damp, splintered piece of wood out of the river, bringing the little man with him. It had taken almost all of his strength to make it across the River Garavogue with the man in tow and, once he was back on solid land, he remained on his knees as he coughed up the water he had accidentally swallowed.

"Ach, boyo, watch where you're spittin' that!"

Seamus almost choked. If there was any doubt—there hadn't been any time for doubts, it had all happened so fast—that he had just rescued a twelve-inch man, the fact that said man was speaking had just made those doubts all but vanish.

Without a thought left to devote to whether or not John Sullivan or Jimmy Finnerty could see him kneeling across the river—they didn't and, oblivious to Seamus, they continued running along the Garavogue's length—Seamus pushed his water-soaked hair out of his eyes as he stared in wonder at the little man.

Too weak to do anything but yell at his rescuer, the man had taken a seat on the grass, absently kicking the buoyant piece of wood that had all but saved his life before turning to face the human boy who _had _saved his life. He scowled; it never did any good to be indebted to a mortal—he just hoped that this boy did not understand what his thoughtless action had just done.

The little man had high hopes for that; the boy didn't look all that clever to him.

It took Seamus a few seconds—the rain continued to fall around him, setting the scene, though he no longer paid any attention to his misfortune—to understand what he was seeing. Finally, when the surprise began to wear of and he was mostly sure that this wasn't a hallucination brought on by an evening of fleeing a jealous suitor and his pal, he was able to say, "What… what are you? A _fear dearg_?"

The little man, dressed all in red like the solitary fairies known as the far darrig, had the audacity to look offended by the question. "Me? I'm not of the _fear dearg_," he said, the words out before he could think better of the admission, "I'm a leprechaun!"

"A… a leprechaun?"

That one word seemed to break the spell for him. Wiping roughly at his eyes with his hand, Seamus made sure that the water wasn't causing him to see things that weren't there. A leprechaun? He must have slipped up along the path, gotten caught, and now the bumps and lumps from the beating he surely received were causing him to imagine that he was talking to a leprechaun. That had to be it.

The self-proclaimed leprechaun watched Seamus nod assuredly to himself and knew that his first instinct had to be right. Instead of looking greedy, as most people who spotted a leprechaun did, the boy looked confused. He didn't believe that he could be talking to a leprechaun—which suited his purpose quite well.

The little man jerked his chin upwards. He needed to keep the boy's mind off of the obvious, lest he figure out just what was going on. "Say, what is your name, lad?"

"Conlon," Seamus answered automatically. He was not quite paying attention as he, to prove a point to himself, extended a pointed finger towards the little man.

"Ah, one of the Ó Conalláin, are ye? Hail from Meath, boyo?" he asked then, continuing in his attempt to waylay the boy from realizing the obvious.

"My grandfather's father, aye. But the farm's here in Sligo now," he said absently, still following the path of his finger with his eyes. Seamus prodded the little red coat, his finger making contact with the leprechaun's tiny shoulder. There was no doubt about that—the little man _was _real. "You _are_ a leprechaun!"

The little man had to swallow his curse as he waited for what would happen next.

He was not disappointed.

"A leprechaun, to be sure, and I know the lore," Seamus announced, drawing his finger back before the fairy could bite the tip. His mother loved to tell stories of the leprechauns, the far darrig and the clurichauns that dwelt in Éire and, after a lifetimes of hearing those stories, he felt it was better to be safe than sorry when dealing with the tricky creatures. He kept his eyes firmly on the little man as he leaned forward, a suspicious look in his wide eyes. "Save a leprechaun and be rewarded, ain't that so?"

The leprechaun had the sudden desire to jump back into the river and let it finish what a bottle of poteen and a fight with his wife had started. It would be better to drown honestly than be honor-bound to serve a human. "Aye," he said, and the bitterness that crept into his brogue was not ignorable, "and let me guess. You'll be after me pot of gold."

Seamus shook his head, the rain water splattering recklessly atop the leprechaun. "What good would a pot of gold be for me?" he asked, and the words did not sound strange to his ears. Though the little man would have been surprised to know the truth, Seamus Conlon _was _quite a lot smarter than he looked; though his tastes regarding the young ladies of Sligo was definitely questionable, he was very careful to watch out for himself and fight (or flee) when the danger became too much.

"Gold can't make the potato grow or till the land," he added, both valid points to the farmer's son. "Aye and there would be far too many question and not enough answers, I think, it I start flashing off a bit of gold that, by any rights, should not be mine."

Though it was darker than it was when he started running, and the rain was—if possible—falling even harder, Seamus did not miss the scowl that marred the little man's face and it surprised him. He had always assumed the leprechaun to be a smiling, if mischievous, fairy; with the creature looking quite fierce, he was still holding onto the idea that he was part of the _fear dearg_.

"A smart boyo, and that's the truth," the leprechaun admitted and he wished all the harder that the Garavogue had consumed him. If the human boy was not after gold, his true wish must be all the more dangerous. "What, then, are ye after?"

The word was out of his mouth before he knew it. "Luck."

"Luck?" The leprechaun could do quite a lot with such a vague wish as that. "Just luck, Ó Conalláin?"

The image of Kathleen Finnerty's pretty, freckled face ran through his mind as he nodded. Rubbing at the goose pimples that ran the lengths of his bare arm—was it just him or did it suddenly become far too cold?—he nodded. "Aye, and good luck, too," he clarified before explaining what he meant, "I want to be with a girl who loves me and have enough money so that my father wouldn't need to work so hard. I don't want to worry about bullies coming for me, or my family." He knelt down, meeting the small face of the fairy as he added, quite earnestly, "I just want the Conlon's to be lucky in the future… in the future and now, understand?"

The leprechaun was standing on his feet now, his dark, beady eyes looking up at Seamus's imploring face. He was searching for something there and, with a sly look into its depths, he found it. "And then we would be even? I'd owe you nothing for the act of savin' me from a watery grave?"

There was something about the way that the leprechaun was suddenly speaking a lot more slowly and quite clear. But Seamus, whose imagination was already warming him with the promise of Kathleen's warm embrace, paid no mind to it.

He nodded his head. "The lore says that you save a leprechaun, you get a wish," was all he said.

"That is so," the leprechaun agreed. The little man then lifted his tiny arms and bowed his head in Seamus' direction. "I thank ye, boyo, and give you what you ask for."

The leprechaun clapped his lifted arms and, with a sound that rivaled the echoes of the storm's considerable thunder, he disappeared. However, in the very space that he had stood, he had left something behind—he had left something for the Conlon boy.

There, nestled in the grass and quickly being covered by the ever falling rain, was a key.

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, here we go. This is the promised sequel to my beast of a fan fiction, _a Maldição de Diabo. _This, like its predecessor, will deal with a familial theme—in this case, the Conlon family—as well as a supernatural/mythological theme—in nowhere near the length. There won't be any ghosts in this either, except the ghosts of the past, and you don't have to be familiar with the first story to read this one (though, of course, it does help). Anywho, read, review, enjoy… you know the drill ;)_


	2. 2004, I

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Patrick Conlon & his family (with the exception of Spot Conlon) and Diana Mason & her family, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story.

* * *

**Legacy**

03.09.08

It had been handed down in the Conlon family from generation to generation.  
Some thought it was a blessing, others a curse.  
But Patrick—he just thought the key was an old, tarnished bit of metal.

* * *

**New Brunswick, New Jersey, 2004**

The phone was ringing and, midway through that first ring, he was already planning. He knew there were only precious seconds remaining for him to bluff his girlfriend and feign sleep in order to not to have to get up from his supine position on the couch and answer the telephone.

So, without another second's thought, he promptly closed his eyes and, for good measure, threw in a mighty snore; his body relaxed as he let his right hand hang casually off the couch's side. If there had been an Academy Award for a convincing naptime performance, he would have been a shoo-in.

However, while his act might have been enough to fool the Academy, it sure wasn't working on Diana. Barely even lifting her green eyes off of the textbook she was currently ravishing with a neon yellow highlighter, she called out, "Patrick? Can you get that?"

Almost begrudgingly, Patrick lifted one of his eyelids, sneaking a peak across the small room of the apartment the pair of them shared. He could spy Diana sitting at the folding table that doubled as both her desk and their kitchen tale, hunched over her book. With one hand, she was running her highlighter across the text; with the other, she was absently pulling at one of the loose curls that had fallen from her messy bun.

Her attention was elsewhere preoccupied, what with her midterms quickly approaching, and Patrick knew it was up to him to do everything he could to make the apartment a conducive environment for her studies—or else. The last time she had finals, right around Christmastime, one joke too many had meant he was sleeping on the very couch he had been attempting to nap on. And, while it was a comfortable enough couch to nap on, it had been hell on his back to sleep on the damn thing for two weeks.

That didn't mean, though, that he was prepared to give up his evenings because Diana just _had _to get her degree. He worked hard down at old man Progresso's trucking company, from eight to six, Monday through Friday, and if he wanted to relax on the couch after pulling a ten-hour shift, well… Diana had to understand that, right?

He closed his eyes again, ignoring the obnoxious ring of the cordless phone. Besides, if it was that important, they could call either his or Diana's cell phones. At least, if his cell phone rang, he wouldn't have to get up off of the couch to answer it.

_Ring, ring…_

"Patrick! I really need to finish reading this tonight and I can't be bothered with the damn phone ringing," Diana snapped suddenly, slamming the highlighter down onto the table. Her face was flushed and there were heavy bags under her eyes. She was tired and she was annoyed and she was taking it all out on her boyfriend. "And I'm not stupid. I know you're not sleeping, you were just telling me about that shipment you dropped off in Newark two seconds ago!"

She had a point. And the phone was _still _ringing. Whoever it was, they weren't giving up hope that someone was home.

"Sorry, babe," Patrick said, twisting his lips into what he hoped was a charming smile as he opened his eyes and sat up. Reaching up, he rubbed the back of his head in an impish manner. He always felt so guilty when Diana snapped at him. "How about I go get the phone now?"

Diana resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Patrick meant well, she knew that, but she was so close to graduation that she could just about _taste _it. "Thank you," she said, trying to sound gracious rather than a spoiled brat. She was well aware that she was a very testy person around exam time and she really was appreciative of the way that Patrick understood her quirks and ignored her temper—after dating for close to five years, he knew her well enough to know that she was all bark and no bite—and he was amazing to work such long hours so that she could finish her schooling but… sometimes she wished he would just answer the stupid phone.

And it wasn't even the phone, really. It was little things like that, like not answering the phone when she was trying to work, or his insistence that he spend the night playing some annoying videogame when she had no homework to worry about.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. It was pointless to start worrying about something so silly as that now when she had an exam that night during her eight o'clock class, plus a project to work on the next morning. And, besides, at least he had finally gotten off the couch…

_Rin—_

Patrick offered Diana a cheeky grin, one that was at home on his handsome face though it was one that definitely belied his twenty-five years, as he crossed the room and quickly picked up the dingy grayish-white cordless phone. He handled it expertly, pressing the 'talk' button before placing it against his ear.

"Conlon, here. Who the fuck are you?"

From her seat at the small table Diana had to bite back a groan. In all the years she had known him, and in spite of countless reprimands from both her and his mother, Patrick had never been able to master the fine art of answering a telephone.

"Pat, my boy," boomed the voice on the other end of the line. It was a gruff voice, deep and rough—the sort of voice that three decades worth of tobacco use causes—but there was an underlying hint of humor to it. "How've you been? I didn't catch you in the can, did I? The phone's been ringing for ages, kiddo, and I was wondering if you fell in there."

Patrick wide cyan's eyes lit up when he heard the voice and he couldn't help but laugh. "Heya, Dad. Nah, I wasn't on the toilet," he answered and Diana finally gave in to the urge to roll her eyes. She knew Mr. Conlon well enough by now that nothing the man said surprised her—Patrick had to have gotten his behavior from somewhere, after all—and she was just glad that at least Mrs. Conlon was normal.

Then again, considering she came from a family that had been, up until a few years ago, wrapped up in a Devil's Curse, she really wasn't one to be judging what was normal or not…

"To tell the truth, I got home from work a little bit ago and I was just settling down to relax when the phone rang," Patrick explained, looking up and over at Diana and gesturing to the phone. He mouthed the word 'Dad'—as if she didn't already hear him address his father—and she nodded before turning her attention back to her studies. Patrick, in turn, nodded before adding, "You know, Dad, you can always call my cell if you want to, you know, chat."

"You know I don't believe in those things, Pat. Besides, why do you have a real phone if you don't want anyone to call it, hmm? That's one less bill you'd have to pay if you got rid of it, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. But what fun would it be, living on my own, if I didn't have a ton of bills to pay?"

There was a pause and Patrick knew that—considering it _was_ his father he was talking to—whatever Sean Conlon would have to say, it would be perverse.

He was right.

"Oh, I don't know. You and that little chickadee of yours, having a nest of your own. I can think of a thing or two you could be doin—"

"Dad!"

Sean chuckled loudly. "Let me guess. Diana's in the room with you?"

Patrick snuck a furtive look over at his girlfriend. Her nose back in her book, she didn't look like she had heard his father's comment through the phone. _Good_. "Yeah. And you know how it is," he said, tiptoeing very delicately around the topic of conversation—especially since she was in earshot.

His father let out a whistle. "No wonder it took you so long to answer the phone."

"Dad!" Patrick could feel the tips of his ears go warm. There was only one person in this world who could get the normally carefree boy to become so touchy and that was his father. "That's not what I meant."

"I know, Pat. I was just pulling your leg, that's all. Ain't a father allowed to ruffle his boy's feathers every now and then?"

"Sure, it's just that…" Patrick shrugged his shoulders before realizing his father couldn't see the action "…it's exam time again. And… yeah." He left the rest of the statement unsaid; after fours years of Diana attending classes at Rutgers University, everyone who knew her knew what she was like at exam time.

Diana didn't bother turning around to face Patrick as she hollered across the room, "I heard that!"

Sean chuckled again. Diana might not have heard his earlier comment but Patrick's father had made out the girl's yell in the background. "Diana gonna make you sleep out on the couch again, Pat?"

Scowling while, at the same time, lowering his voice, Patrick said, "I sure as hell hope not. I don't think my back's ever gonna be the same again."

"That'll teach you, kiddo. You should have known better. But, since I feel for you, I'll give you some advice. You listening?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"All right, remember this and you'll go pretty far: the woman is always… and I mean always… is always right."

It was Patrick's turn to laugh. "On Mom's bad side again, huh?"

There was a second pause. He could just imagine the sheepish look that must have found its way to his father's face. "I'm a very busy man and I have more than enough on my mind and, well, how can she expect me to remember when our anniversary is every damn year?"

"March 2nd," Patrick answered promptly, that mischievous smirk back on his face. In all the years that Sean and Caroline Conlon had been married, he doubted his father had ever remembered what day their anniversary was. It was actually a long running joke in their family, how his father never remembered the day he and his wife were wed; his father had never, after all those years, figured out that he was the punch line.

"Thanks, Pat. And where were _you_ last week?"

"Sorry, Dad, but I was working. Like always," he said, wincing only slightly. Diana got upset when he mentioned how often he was at work—it made her feel as if she was taking advantage of him—and he tried not to complain… too much, at least.

"Ah, but you're not working tomorrow, are you?"

Patrick didn't like the way his father said that. He hesitated for a second before answering. "No, Dad, it's Saturday. If there's one thing I can say about ol' Prog," he said, referring to his boss by his nickname, "it's that he's not the sort of prick who makes us work weekends."

"That's great! Now, how about you make your old man's day and tell him that you'll hop a train or two and visit him for the weekend? I know you got that train station not too far from your apartment and, hell, you can bring Diana along, too. We haven't seen you guys since Christmas and, I'll tell you, your mom's getting a bit twitchy."

He had known that something was up the second that his father had asked him about Saturday but he hadn't expected the man to invite him back to the City. Then again, his father was right—it had been awhile since the last time he saw his parents, and even longer since the last time he and Diana had gone back to New York. And, as far as he knew, Diana had her last exam that night—she should be relieved to spend the weekend out of town now that her work was done.

Besides, there was something he'd been putting off for far too long, now. He kept telling himself that he was waiting for the time to be right—it never seemed to be, what with one thing or another—but, if anything, it would be nice for the two of them to be together again in the City where they met.

Manhattan held quite a few memories for the pair and, Patrick could not help but think to himself, perhaps it would do them both some good to be reminded.

"Alright, Dad," he said finally, "I'll talk to Diana and see what I can do. I'm not making any promises or nothing but I might be able to finagle something."

"That's my boy," Sean said, and he sounded relieved. "We'll be home all afternoon, waiting for you guys. I'm sure your mother will want to see you in one piece so, do me a favor, take the subway and not a cab. You know how some of those drivers can get, forgetting where they parked their cabs and such."

Patrick found it interesting how, even though he was only tentatively agreeing to visiting his parents, his father was already counting on their arrival. He overlooked that, however, in order to grimace at his father's parting shot. "Ha, ha, Dad. Very funny," he drawled, shaking his head as he remembered the few months when he had worked as a New York City taxi driver. While it had been during that short stint of employment that he met Diana Mason, back in '99, it was also one of the shortest jobs he had ever held. He had never been able to explain just why he never returned his hack back to the distribution center on time; he doubted that his supervisor would believe that he had been held hostage by a demon.

"I'm just saying..."

"Uh-huh, sure. I'll remember that next year when you want my help in remembering yours and Mom's anniversary."

"Oh, that was low. Don't you have any love for your old man?"

Patrick shook his head again, but he was smiling. "Whatever you say, Dad."

"Be good, kiddo. I'll see you tomorrow, eh?"

"Sure, I guess. Probably." Patrick decided to give up at that point. He would never hear the end of it anyway if he did not see his parents when his father was so set on him visiting. "See you."

"Bye."

Patrick heard the click that signaled his father's disconnection on the other end and, after moving the phone away from his ear, pressed the 'talk' button again. Then, setting the old cordless phone back on his charger, he turned to look back over at Diana.

He had expected her to still be reading her book and it gave him a start to see that she was watching him intently. Her textbook—_ A History of Ancient Greece in Its Mediterranean Context—_was closed before her and she had her chin resting on her open palm. Her eyebrows were raised in interest as she asked, "And what was _that _about?"

"I don't really know," he said, answering truthfully as he crossed the room again and resumed his position back on the couch. He folded his hands behind his head as he lay down, kicking his heels up on the opposite arm rest. "That was my dad—"

"Yeah, I kinda figured."

Patrick kept speaking as if she hadn't interrupted. "—and he was trying to get me to agree to going into the City this weekend. Wanted me and you to go, actually. What do you say?"

Diana bit her bottom lip, a sure sign that he wasn't going to like what she had to say. "You didn't tell him we would, did you, Patrick?"

"You know how my dad is, babe. I tried to tell him that we'd think about it but he didn't want to hear that. He really wants to see us. Is that a problem?"

She shook her head absently as she slowly took her eyes away from him. Her gaze was on the floor and she was still resting her front teeth on her bottom lip. "I have a project I've got to work on tomorrow morning."

"Can't you do it when we get back?"

"No, Patrick, I can't. It's… it's… I have project partner and…well, the only time he—we can meet is tomorrow morning. But," she added hurriedly, still pointedly not meeting his eyes, "that doesn't mean that you can't go. You really _should _visit with your family more."

Patrick thought about what she said for a second before, "I've an idea, Diana. How about I head into New York in the morning and you meet me there when… when your project's done." There was something about her tone that suggested that there was more to it than that—it wasn't just that she had a project due—and he was sure that his own hesitance could be heard in his voice.

It was exam time, after all. Everything got hectic this time of the semester.

She seemed to be milling his idea over in her heard before nodding her acceptance of it. "I think that sounds like a plan, Patrick. And," she added, as she stood up from her seat and walked over to the couch, "I've been meaning to check in on Aunt Ria."

Though he didn't move from his comfortable spot, Patrick reached his hand out and grabbed Diana's. He intertwined his fingers in hers, glad for the moment that things were back to normal. If he was being honest with himself, their relationship had been slightly strained over the past few weeks and he had been a bit nervous that she would have refused to take the trip out of town for the weekend.

"Ah, Ria. How is the old broad doing?"

"She's doing well, Patrick. My mom said that my aunt and Martin are very happy together. And the baby's going to be healthy," Diana said, slightly swinging her arm back and forth as she smiled down at Patrick.

He gladly returned the smile as he gave a gentle pull on her arm. The force was not much but it was enough to pull her forward; she followed the momentum of his tug, lowering her head until her lips had met his. She giggled through the simple kiss but, for the first time since exams began, she was being affectionate with him.

But, despite the cozy scene, there was something nagging at him, too, something that she said. He couldn't really put his finger on it—and, as Diana joined him on the couch, he didn't want to—but it stood out in the back of his mind all the same.

Deciding it would be better to worry about… whatever it was… later on, Patrick pulled Diana close to him. It was only a few minutes past seven and she didn't have her history test until eight o'clock. The walk across the campus to her classroom would only take twenty or so minutes—that left them with at least a half an hour to just be together.

A half an hour was a half an hour. He would take it. Besides, they would have the rest of the weekend to be together, as soon as she finally took her last damn exam.

Snuggling his nose against the back of her curly-haired head, Patrick Conlon took a deep breath and smiled into her bun. He couldn't wait until Saturday night.

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, I want to start off by thanking the wonderful people who reviewed my first chapter. I was a little worried to start this sucker, what with it having to live up to the Beast and all, but I was very touched by your comments. And, because of the response to the first chapter, I've decided to attempt to update this story as I did (for the most part) with Diabo. So here's to Sundays!_

_Also, I wanted to add that the timeline for this story is going to be very weird. While the main story takes place in 2004 (Diana and Patrick's story), there are many, many flashes into the past. Like the first chapter, they will be told on their own but—here's the kicker—they will be thrown (sort of) randomly into the whole story, and not in any sort of linear order. Hopefully you will understand what I mean with the next few chapters. Until then!_


	3. 2004, II

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Patrick Conlon & his family (with the exception of Spot Conlon) and Diana Mason & her family, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story.

* * *

**Legacy**

03.23.08

It had been handed down in the Conlon family from generation to generation.  
Some thought it was a blessing, others a curse.  
But Patrick—he just thought the key was an old, tarnished bit of metal.

* * *

The snoring was almost unbearable. To her ears, it sounded like a chainsaw that kept stalling—_no_, better yet, a chainsaw that was going to town on a rather thick tree trunk—and she had the sudden overwhelming urge to kick him out of the bed. It was bad enough that he had stolen most of the covers during the night but the snoring? It was just not acceptable.

Diana was, at the back of her mind—buried behind a wall of indignation that couldn't believe a living human being could make such noises—well aware that Patrick _always _snored. From that first day, when the two of them moved into their quaint apartment off of Easton Ave, Patrick had snored. She had tried everything from wearing earplugs to bed to buying him those nasal strips that were guaranteed to stop the snoring but nothing had worked. He was a snorer, that was all there was to it.

Therefore, it made no sense, really, that she was so aggravated by the plethora of snuffles and snorts that came from the mass of blankets on the left side of the bed. But she was.

The snores grated on her nerves and she had half a mind to smack him in the chest with her pillow. If she had to wake up early because his snoring was bothering her, then it only seemed fair that he would have to get up, too. However, before she removed the pillow from her face—the pillow, when she tried to cover her ears, had not drowned out the loud noise but she left it there anyway—she realized that that would be a very catty thing to do. Patrick worked long hours five days a week; he deserved to sleep late on the weekends.

So, sighing as she slipped out of the queen size bed they shared, Diana decided that she might as well make the best of her early start. It was—a quick glance at the slim silver watch she always wore told her—only a quarter after eight. While the Student Center over on Livingston Campus was sure to be open, her study date wasn't until ten o'clock. There was more than enough time for her to take a nice, hot, relaxing shower and get dressed before heading out across town.

Her sigh turned into a yawn as she quietly shuffled across the small bedroom. Patrick's shoes and belts and work uniforms littered the floor and she instinctively navigated her way without stubbing her bare feet once. She kept her eyes partly closed, as if she was enjoying the last vestiges of her sleep, tiptoeing along the small, somewhat clear path that led to the bathroom.

Until, of course, she felt a soft brush of… _something_ hit the edge of her toes; she did not stop, though, as she kept walking… right into something that felt like a great, furry lump. Diana's eyes sprang open but she too late. She was not able to stop herself; she tripped over her own two feet in an attempt not to flatten the lump. Struggling to regain her balance, Diana fell—_hard—_into the doorway of the bathroom.

_Thud_.

"Ah, _crap_."

"Meow?"

Her right shoulder banged, her breath all but stolen by her unexpected fall, Diana let out a frustrated grunt as she momentarily closed her eyes again. She strained her hearing and, after a beat, nodded assuredly to herself. Patrick was still snoring, not that she expected any less of him. It would take quite a lot more than tripping over her pet to wake him up.

Then, opening her eyes once more, Diana pushed herself off of the threshold before squatting down to meet the cat face to face.

It was a pretty cat, if a little heavier than was healthy, with thick, lush grey fur. With wide, staring copper-colored eyes, daring pupils that were narrowed into slits and a demanding look that only a feline could get away with, it stood there, waiting for the girl to reach out her hand.

And she did, because Diana had lived with the cat for enough years to know what it wanted when it found its way into her path. It was either food or petting, and they were nowhere near the kitchen.

"Mornin', Six," she greeted, somewhat begrudgingly, as she held her arm out in front of her. "Sleep well, did you, girl?"

The cat rubbed her face affectionately against Diana's outstretched hand, purring contentedly. In her own way she answered her owner.

Diana understood what she meant. "That's good. I'm glad one of us was able to get some shut eye with Mr. Snores-a-Lot in there," she said, using her fingers to scratch behind Six's ears. "But, if you don't mind, next time? If you want your pettin's, you gotta wait until I'm awake first, all right? Hmm?"

"Meow."

"Good. I'll take that as a yes," Diana decided, pulling her hand back and pushing her sleep-wild hair out of her eyes, as she stood up and entered the cramped bathroom. Six followed her right in.

She was aware of the fact that Patrick thought she was just a little bit crazy—even if he would never admit it; they'd been down that road once before and he did not have a death wish—for the way that she spoke to Six but, in her experience, a cat could be much more intelligent than it initially seemed. She was convinced that Six—and Five, a rambunctious tomcat that Diana's mother couldn't bare to part with—understood everything that she said.

Diana waited until Six's long, stick-thin tail had followed its counterpart into the bathroom before reaching for the door handle. Ever since that one time, when Jack Kelly spied on her while she was showering, she was very careful to make sure that the bathroom door was shut and no invisible, would-be peeping toms were lurking about; not to mention, the echoes of long dead girls peering back at her from the other side of a mirror…

She shook her head. All that happened years ago, no need to worry about that now.

Right?

Biting her lip, Diana wondered why the memories of that one particular summer were haunting her so much recently. It seemed like, ever since this most recent semester had started—her last one, _thank goodness!_—everything was so different. She barely saw Patrick anymore as it was, what with her schoolwork and his job, and she could _feel _that something was between them, pushing them away from each other. Really, it was no wonder that she was…

Diana shook her head again, fervently this time, and, before she had closed the bathroom door, she poked her head back into the bedroom. Though she did not see his head, she could make out his blanket-covered form still lying on the edge of the left side of the bed. He was sleeping, and she was glad.

If she was being honest with herself, she didn't really want to deal with Patrick at the moment. She had gotten off easy the night before and the last thing she needed was him to start asking questions—especially questions that there wasn't a real answer to. Not yet, anyway.

That was, after all, _her _job.

* * *

Patrick was snoring, yes, but he was also dreaming.

It wasn't a particularly good dream. In fact, it felt like one that he had had thousands of times before and, without the element of surprise, it wasn't very enjoyable. It was actually kind of annoying.

Wherever he was—if it even _was_ him; he didn't feel like himself, and he kept answering to a name that sure wasn't Patrick—it was dark and it was wet. Everything was passing him by in a blur, mixtures of greens and browns and whites spinning by him, moving so fast that he couldn't make out anything in the absolute mess.

One minute he was running and the next, swimming. Patrick—the dream Patrick, at least—was wading in a pond—maybe it was a river—and the water was rushing past him with such a frenzied pace that it was amazing that he wasn't being carried away by the current.

With the water up to his thighs, cold and cruel, he stood in place, confused. He had the strange feeling that he was looking for something—someone?—but, for the life of him, he couldn't figure what it was. It wasn't really a surprise to him that he didn't know what he was looking for; this was not the first time that he was out searching and he hadn't stumbled upon the reason behind this repeated dream yet.

He felt confident this time as he fought the waters and tried to make some sense of the faded and fuzzy mixed images that cascaded ceaselessly before his eyes. Though it was difficult to discern the distance to the shore, Patrick could have sworn that he saw something sparkle across the water. He didn't know exactly what it was but promptly decided to find out for himself. It was, at the very least, worth a shot.

Until—

"Meow."

He heard the sharp tone of Six's cry, followed by the pointed prodding of her soft paw and knew that he was no longer dreaming. Patrick was not wet, nor was he crossing rushing water; he was on his back, a heavy weight settled on his chest. That weight—as well as the cry and the paw-prodding—was far more familiar than any strange dream and Patrick knew exactly what would happen if he ignored Six—and he didn't have any spare shoes for her to get sick in.

Groaning as he slowly—and unwillingly—pulled the blanket over and away from his face, he lifted his head and eyed his unwanted companion. She was sitting primly on his chest, her tail wrapped around the front of her paws, a blank expression on her furry face.

"What the fuck do you want, cat?" Patrick growled, his throat dry and his voice rusty. He was suddenly very thirsty but he knew he was not going to be able to get up and get a drink until the fat cat decided to climb off of him. It was almost their little weekend ritual; whenever Diana was gone from the bed, Six decided when she wanted Patrick to wake up, too. A couple of pokes, well placed weight and a meow or two and Patrick would open his cyan eyes in acknowledgement of her presence.

The cat always won because, if she didn't, she was spiteful enough to use her claws to get her way. Patrick had more than enough scars on his hands and arms from ignoring Diana's cat as it was; he learned shortly after Six's arrival that it was much better just to give in. Besides, Diana seemed to like the cat better than him sometimes. And she _never _got scratched.

"Meow."

Patrick sighed. "Whatever. I'm up anyway," he said, feeling foolish for actually talking to the cat. He usually made fun of Diana for the way she treated Six as if she was a child, he didn't need to start doing the same. He had enough problems as it was.

Six narrowed her eyes but, as Patrick squirmed underneath her bulk, understood that the boy wanted to get up from the bed. Taking her time, stretching before she moved, Six stepped onto the bed. Once her last paw was on the mattress rather than resting on Patrick's chest, she curled up into a harmless, fluffy ball.

He knew better, though, and was very careful to climb out of the bed without disturbing her. The next two days, a weekend without Six there to watch him evilly—he swore that the cat had it out for him; Diana just called him jealous—was going to be even greater than he first imagined.

It was just about ten o'clock and he knew that Diana was already gone for the morning. She had told him about that project she would be working on all morning, and then she needed to bring Six and all her supplies over to her friend's apartment so that the cat would be taken care of during the weekend. Patrick had argued that Six would be fine but Diana insisted and, well, whenever Diana actually _insisted_, trying to argue against her was like fighting a losing battle.

Therefore, with all the errands that Diana needed to do—he could tell, from the mess that was still cluttering the bedroom, that she still hadn't packed her overnight bad for their weekend trip—that he wouldn't be seeing her until late that afternoon, at the very earliest. And, while he had the faint desire to wait for her so that they could take the train into the City together, Patrick decided that he would probably be better off heading in on his own.

His father was antsy to see him, that much was obvious from his conversation the night before, and Patrick had a thing or two he wanted to get off his chest. Though he didn't know exactly why—somewhere, deep in his consciousness, the sparkle of that hidden object from his dream came to mind—he felt like the time was almost perfect; he'd been putting it off for so long now, and there was no doubt that Diana was getting restless, becoming distant.

He had to do it, and soon, or he would never get the chance…

Patrick was still thirsty and he was hankering for a cup of coffee from the local deli on the corner but, before he threw on some clothes and grabbed his wallet, he made up his mind to pack his own bag. There was a duffel bag thrown under the bed and, after a few unsuccessful attempts to grab at it, he retrieved the dusty, old black bag. He slapped it against the edge of the bed, knocking the dust covering off it and letting the particles erupt in a cloud, ignoring the annoyed growl that came from Six.

Socks, two shirts, a pair of pants and some underwear were thrown into the open bag, as well as a belt, half a stick of deodorant, a battered copy of _Good Omens_, and a tub of hair gel. His Gameboy Advance and a couple games were tossed on top in case reading on the train gave him a headache; he made a mental note to remember to buy extra batteries before going to the train station.

Then, when he was sure he had most of the essentials that he would need for the night, he opened the bottom drawer of his dresser. Most of his summer clothes were stashed in there, plus a magazine or two, but he ignored them as he slid his hand under the drawer's contents. Using his fingers as detectors, Patrick moved his hand around until he found what he was looking for. After closing his fist around the small object, he drew his hand out and, using his left hand, closed the dresser drawer.

His fingers unfolded, revealing a small, square box that was resting in the center of his palm. There was no need to open the box—he knew what was inside of it. With a quick toss, and perfect aim, the box landed right inside his duffel bag, nestled right up against a fur-covered shirt. Patrick glanced at the shirt and then the box before shaking his head and walking over to his closet.

There was a button down shirt, grey and light blue stripes running down its length, hanging in the back of the closet. It was a nice shirt, one that brought out the intense color of his eyes, and it was one that Diana had bought for him for his birthday back in January.

Patrick gave it an appraising look—it was fur-free and without any wrinkles—before removing it from its hanger and folding it up. He tapped the silky material of the shirt with his open palm before adding it to his packing.

_Perfect…_

A hint of a nervous smile flittered across his face but he banished it almost immediately; it was unnecessary and out of place. Patrick Conlon wasn't nervous—he didn't think there was any need to be—because he never was a nervous, doubtful type of guy. He was cynical at times, perhaps a bit crass, but he rarely felt out of control, let alone nervous.

He was used to getting what he wanted and, when you always get what you want, there's no place for doubt.

* * *

The doors of the bus opened, letting in a rush of cool air before a handful of students attempted to embark and disembark—most of them doing it at the same time—the rambling Rutgers Route L behemoth. It was a much gentler affair than normal; Saturday classes were not very popular and most students started their treks to the library later in the afternoon, if at all.

After slinging her bag over her shoulder and sidling past the headphones-wearing boy who had shared the seat with her, Diana exited out onto the sidewalk. Sidestepping a muddy puddle caused by an early spring shower, she lowered her head and walked forward, approaching the Student Center with as much care-free ease as she could muster.

Her heart was hanging slightly heavy in her chest but she tried to ignore the feeling. Besides, when all was said and done, she was sure that Patrick would understand why she was doing this, why she was keeping so many secrets from him. He could be very jealous at times and the last thing she needed was for him to find out just where she went when she said she had a project to work on.

Diana nodded graciously at the bus driver that held the front door open for her as she squeezed passed his considerable-sized bulk and entered the brightly lit building. The Center's quick stop convenience shop stood to her left but she was fully stocked up on Red Bull and index cards and quickly scurried by the inviting doorway.

Her shower had taken longer than she expected, and Six had needed to be brushed and fed. Then the cat point blank refused to let her leave until she found the stuffed Beanie Baby kitty that Six liked to carry around—Diana found it jammed under the refrigerator and had spent a good five minutes trying to figure out how that had happened—and, by the time Diana was leaving the apartment, it had been quarter to ten.

She glanced at her watch. If he arrived at the Student Center on time—and she had no doubt that he had, she was just worried that he would have left after she failed to show up at ten—then she was already twenty minutes late. And she _hated_ being late.

Someone was exiting out of the lounge as she approached the door, a blonde girl who was walking forward while glancing over her shoulder. She was giggling—Diana tried not to roll her eyes while waiting for the girl to move so that she could enter the room—and, since her attention was not on the direction she was going, the girl bumped right into Diana.

"Um, excuse me?"

"Sorry," the blonde snapped, barely moving her gaze from whatever it was she was making eyes at.

Diana shrugged. It wasn't worth it. "No problem."

The girl sighed and, because there wasn't any choice for her except to turn back or keep on going, she slowly walked past Diana. Diana, whose watch told her she was now twenty _three _minutes late, huffed the impatient huff of someone who knew they were late and didn't want to be any later before entering into the lounge.

The word "lounge" really didn't do the room justice. There was enough space in this wing to fill two of Diana's apartments; with a Dunkin' Donuts on one end, a small café on the other and enough seats to fit over one hundred people, the Livingston Student Center lounge was a perfect place for the two of them to meet again.

It was empty in the lounge, only three or four tables occupied. Diana, prepared to search the room for her partner, only had to stare straight ahead until she saw him sitting at a booth on the opposite end of the lounge's entrance. She couldn't help but let out a small snort under her breath; she had a pretty good idea now what that rude blonde girl had been looking at as she left.

The boy was good looking; there was no doubt about that. With a shock of dark hair and eyes just a shade lighter, his features were at a contrast to his fair complexion. His face—his body, really—was long and thin; he was tall, too, but not awkward. There was an inherent grace to him, a charm that drew her attention to his very presence at once.

He stood up when he saw her approaching. There was a smile on his handsome face as he held his hands out in an open and welcoming gesture. "Diana," he said warmly, his voice deeper than his thin frame would suggest, "I was wondering if I was going to be stood up for our little date."

Her cheeks, despite her conscience yelling at them to stop, were heating up like an inferno and she could feel the coy smile that rearranged itself on her face. She stopped right in front of him, sure that the guilt her lateness caused was emanating off of her.

The boy lowered his arms and, before she could do anything to stop him, he leaned in and kissed her on her cheek. As he drew back and, lazily almost, re-took his seat in the booth, he told her, "I'm really glad you're here."

She swallowed quickly, willing the nervous squeak out of her voice. Every time she saw him, she sounded like a mouse; she hoped that, this time, she wouldn't. It was getting embarrassing.

"Hi, Bobby," she said.

And then she winced. If her voice was any higher, only dogs would have been able to make out her greeting.

* * *

Author's Note: _Hey, guys! Well, I will continue to try to update this _every _Sunday but last week was just out of control. Yesterday was my first day off in eleven days (gotta love it when they spring an inventory on you out of nowhere!) and I had to do all sorts of prep for the holiday today. However, I worked on this chapter whenever I could and, after my Easter egg hunt this morning, I was able to finish this chapter. Hopefully I'll have enough chapter out midweek to make up for missing last week…_

_So, yes, there was the chapter and I'd love to hear what you think about it. Next chapter will be… different. I can't wait to get to it :)_

_Happy Easter! _


	4. 1945, I

Disclaimer: These are always mandatory when dabbling in fan fiction. If there is anything at all that is reminiscent of the 1992 musical _Newsies_, then it probably belongs to Disney. The characters of Patrick Conlon & his family (with the exception of Spot Conlon) and Diana Mason & her family, specifically, are mine, as well as others that may work their way into this story.

* * *

**Legacy**

03.30.08

It had been handed down in the Conlon family from generation to generation.  
Some thought it was a blessing, others a curse.  
But Patrick—he just thought the key was an old, tarnished bit of metal.

* * *

**Manhattan, New York 1945**

It really wasn't that far of a trip from the heart of Brooklyn to the Lower East Side but he couldn't chance walking the lengths of the bridge. His leg was still very stiff and painful, though it had healed considerably over the course of the last few months, and it had been giving him much more trouble lately than it had since he arrived back Stateside.

And, besides, Will Conlon would be damned if he was going to go and visit her with a cane in hand.

He took his time walking to the Subway station, taking care to put little to no weight on his right leg. The limp was noticeable but, he knew, nowhere as noticeable as some of the other injuries he could spot on fellow veterans; some were missing limbs, others their eyes and fingers and some… some lost their heart. Dead eyes gave away one who had seen too much and, as Will hobbled his way down the steps, he felt guilty when he thought of all he had seen and how, even then, it hadn't been as much as the scarred brothers he met in the street.

The Second Great War was undoubtedly warranted but, sometimes, Will wondered if it was worth it all—and he hadn't had to give it all. He had lost his leg to the cause but, at least, he made it out of France with his life.

Will was still young in years but he felt old. Before he signed up to fight for his country, he was a cheerful, if cocky with patriotism and hate for the enemy, nineteen year old boy; now, three years later, he was an old twenty-two year old man who limped through life. The light had gone from his bright blue eyes and his dirty blonde hair had grown out from its military cut and into a shaggy mess that attempted to cover much of his forehead.

He was a living ghost who feigned a smile to support the war effort. Will embraced the sentiments of those who honored him and his fellow soldiers but, in truth, he felt as dead as the brothers in arms he left in their mass graves.

Jolly stories were told about his time overseas, lies to mask the destruction he saw and the pain he witnessed all the time. And it wasn't just the piece of shrapnel that just barely missed taking his entire leg off but the grief of watching friend after friend perish for the name of freedom. Will couldn't tell his family back home about the reality of the War they so readily supported so he fibbed and he hated himself for it.

His head heavy and his thoughts full, Will entered the Subway terminal, vaguely aware of his surroundings. And, if he had been paying attention to his path, he might have seen the dip in the floor a few feet in front of the fare turnstile—but he didn't and, when his boot got caught in the dip, his bad leg gave out and he found himself falling.

The landing was rough but months and months of dodging bullets from enemy fire had instilled an instinct in the young man to fall where the least amount of damage could occur and the least amount of target could be presented. Pulling himself to the left so as to not fall on his right leg, Will hit the ground hard and groaned upon impact.

He did not rise straight away and, when he did, it was not his choice. While he did not hit his right leg hard when he fell, it still was banged and the pain was horrible. Will did not want to get back up but two women, barely older than he was, had watched him fall and they hurried over to help him stand.

"Here, sir," one said breathily, her voice high-pitched with the hint of an amused giggle, "let us help you."

"Yes," her friend agreed, grabbing Will's other arm and tugging on it. "It's our duty to help our boys, both at home and on the line."

Will had to refrain from frowning as they struggled to help him up; it was harder than it should have been because he was doing nothing to aid in their supposed good deed and obvious duty.

He was, of course, glad to see that the girls were able to recognize him as a veteran and were so willing to help him but what did it matter if he didn't need—or want—their help? Yes, he had fought bravely for as long as he could and, yes, he had been hurt during his time there but he had enough reminders of that time of his life; their propaganda and devotion was upsetting to him.

But he couldn't tell them that. He couldn't tell this two girls that, by watching him fall and getting him back to his feet, they weren't doing anything more than reasserting his lessened masculinity, And, besides, why was it their duty to help him just because he had enlisted? Did that mean that, if an elderly man had fallen, they would have left him there because he wasn't one of their 'boys'?

He longed to call them out on their hypocrisy but he didn't. Ignoring the looks of self-satisfaction and adoration they each individually gave him once he was standing again, Will attempted to return their smiles. It was a trial, forming a grin with unhappy lips, but he did it. "Thank you."

The first girl, the taller and thinner of the two, batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh, don't thank us. In fact, we should be thanking you, fighting for us all at home."

"Yes," said her friend, "we are so proud of all of our soldiers." She sounded so earnest and heartfelt that Will almost felt bad for thinking so negatively of them.

But then, she added, "Is it really as fascinating as all the pictures make it out to be?" and he realized that, until the War was finally over, he would never fully feel as if he belonged back at home in the States.

Something about fighting for your life and your country's right did that to a man. Once a soldier, always a soldier, they told him and Will Conlon never believed that old adage until that very moment. Just then, with those two girls eyeing him so calmly, so sweetly, he wished he had dodged that piece of shrapnel; if he had, he would still be alongside his buddies rather than feeling useless and lame and… old.

"To be honest," he began, with the airs of one imparting some great cosmic secret, "it's even better than you'd imagine. Hell, it was worth my leg for such a treat. You should try fighting in a battle some time." He kept his smile in place, and his tone was sweet—but it was also as condescending as he could make it.

The two girls just gawked at him. They were, he could tell, unsure what to make of his confession and, rather than say or do anything in response, they just stared at him.

Will was being an ass and he knew it. And he hated himself for it.

Feeling a rush of guilt, he bowed his head, mumbled some sort of gratitude for a second time, and started to hobble away again. His leg hurt like hell but his pride—his conscience—stung even more. It had seemed like a good thing to say at the time, especially since they had mentioned the damn films that made war look so glamorous when it was anything but, but they'd been helping him, after all. They didn't deserve to be treated so poorly.

That didn't mean, of course, that he was going to turn around and apologize. He was standing right next to the fare turnstile now and he just wanted to continue on his way. Saturdays only came once a week and he couldn't wait to sit down and have a visit with Étaín.

Just the mere thought of her name was enough to brighten Will's mood considerably. The anger and humiliation he had known upon falling faded as something akin to giddiness heated up his face. Étaín… she, at least, had been glad to see that he had made it home from Europe, for the most part, in one piece.

Leaning against the turnstile, Will shoved his hand in the front of his trouser pocket. He searched the depths for a Subway token, his attention focused totally on the time when he would see Étaín again. The trip underground would not take too long, and Duane Street wasn't that far away from the Lower East Side Subway station. He would be sitting alongside the girl before he knew it.

Mildly frustrated when he couldn't figure what part of the debris in his pocket was a token, he scooped up the pocket's contents and brought it all out in front of him. After opening up his hand, he saw a few things resting in his open palm. There were a few coins and a dollar bill or two, a piece of lint, a rubber band and an old, rusty key. And there, sitting underneath the key, was a Subway token.

He brushed the key aside with his other hand and picked up the token before closing his fist around the rest of the junk from his pocket. Vaguely, he couldn't remember putting any of that into his trouser pockets that morning when he changed—especially not the old key that, as far as Will knew, did not unlock anything but, nevertheless, his father had given it to him and told him to keep it safe—but it didn't matter. He had his token; he would be able to take the Subway.

With a satisfaction that was made all the sweet as he limped his way sideways through the turnstile and left those girls behind him, Will dropped his token in the slot and made his way forward. As he attempted to, for that afternoon at least, leave Brooklyn behind him, a ghost of a real, handsome smile flittered across his usually expressionless face.

He really did look forward to Saturdays.

* * *

After giving his leg a rest on the Subway ride over to Manhattan and going even easier as he entered onto the street, Will felt much better as he approached Duane Street. It didn't seem so gloomy to him on this side of the Brooklyn Bridge and, as difficult as it was to think back to his childhood these days, he felt at home in the Lower East Side.

He saw No. 9 in the near distance and picked up his pace a little. He had spent many of his weekends growing up in that building and the sight of it, even after everything he had been through the last few years, it was still a welcome sight.

No. 9 Duane Street was a noticeable landmark to Will. The whole building belonged to his great aunt and uncle, though you would never tell that the Jacobs had money, and his grandfather had raised his father in that same building for many years before the Conlons settled in Brooklyn.

Étaín Jacobs, technically, was his aunt but Will had never seen her that way. For one thing, she was a tiny thing—one of the reasons he affectionately referred to her as 'Teeny'; another being the strange Gaelic name her mother, Rhiannon, had cursed the child with—who barely came up to his shoulders. And, for another, Étaín was actually younger than Will; she had eighteen years to his twenty-two.

The age difference aside, Will found it very difficult to think of Étaín as his aunt. If anything, when they were younger, he treated her as if she was his sister; when they grew older, she was his best friend. And now… now Will wasn't too sure what he thought of Étaín… he just knew that he thought of her very often.

He loved her, that much was obvious. It had been very difficult for Étaín when he enlisted, especially since Will was not the only man in her life that went off to war. A few months after Will was shipped out, Étaín's high school sweetheart signed up to fight. And, while Will had returned when his injury dictated he could no longer serve his country, Jeffrey was still overseas.

Étaín was lonely and, in her loneliness, she was doing everything she could for the war effort. But, unlike the two girls he had met in the Subway station, she did not make him feel as if the fighting was glamorous; she was doing what she did because she wanted the war over—she wanted her Jeffy to come home.

Will wasn't sure that he did. Sure, Jeff was a good guy and all but he cherished his weekend visits with Étaín. His mother, an English woman who met his father in Chicago, was tough and very no-nonsense. Ever since had had returned, Sally Conlon kept her eye on her only son constantly. She had been distraught when he left the family to fight and she refused to let him leave her sight but once a week, on Saturdays. Sally insisted that he stay home and heal, lest his injury miraculously went away and he got sent back to France.

But, as far as Will was concerned, he didn't have to worry about Jeff. Étaín received letters from him whenever he was able to write and he assured her he was safe (_and whole, _Will thought bitterly as he entered the building) and would be home soon enough. Soon enough, Will knew, meant when the war was done and over. And it wasn't yet.

His leg was feeling somewhat better but it the pain hadn't dulled enough yet for him to take the stairs. Instead, he headed towards the elevator. Étaín and her family lived on the uppermost floor of the building; there was no way he could climb that high without stumbling again.

The ride up took longer than Will would have liked. Lately, during his visits to Duane Street, just being in the same building as Étaín made him antsy. It tended to make him hurry and, when he hurried, his limp became even more of an uneven gait. He had lost his balance more than once but it hadn't taught him anything yet; he still hobbled towards the door of Étaín's apartment.

Confident in his welcome, he did not bother knocking on the door. The doorknob turned under his hand and the slightest push made the door open wide. However, before he could announce his arrival into the apartment, a sound caught his ear; the sound kept him quiet, instead, as he limped toward the source of the sound.

Will entered the drawing room and found Étaín slumped on the chaise lounge in the center of the room. She was crying, loudly enough that her cries was the sound he had hear, hard enough that she was choking from her sobs. Her hair, fluffy mahogany-colored curls, was limp and hanging off her shoulders and the flattering dress she wore was wrinkled and unsightly.

She was ringing her hands, holding tight to her handkerchief, as she looked up at Will. Streaks of tears ran down her face, she was crying, and she couldn't find the strength to stand and greet him. Étaín looked weak; she appeared destroyed as she sunk deeper into the chaise.

He couldn't help but think, in her distress, that she looked more beautiful than ever. He felt guilty for the thought and hurriedly forgot it as he fought for some sign of the reasoning behind her cries.

Will's eyes, without his instruction, found the culprit of her grief. There was a telegram at her feet, open and read.

_Oh, no…_

"It's Jeff—Jeffy," she said needlessly, hiccupping the name through her tears, "he's… he's—"

It was all too familiar for him, this scene. Too many friends lost, too many neighbors perished. War made you hard and it was that hardness that enticed him to offer the young girl the word she so obviously dreaded to hear.

"Dead?"

A fresh wave of sobs hit Étaín and, her used handkerchief clutched tightly in her petite fist, she crumbled up and cried. Will didn't even need to hear her confirmation; her state was all he needed to know the truth. Jeffrey Brooks, the one person who ever rivaled Will for Étaín's affection, was dead and gone.

He couldn't stop himself. For the first time since he arrived back in New York, someone he loved knew exactly how he felt, they knew exactly what this War could cost. It pained him slightly that it was Étaín who was suffering so much anguish but, in a way, it made him happy. He wasn't alone with his sorrow anymore.

That realization struck him as he looked down at Étaín. She looked so small, so vulnerable as she sat on the couch and he felt such a rush of emotion toward her, much stronger than he had ever felt before. It was love, yes, but it was more than that too. It was companionship.

Will dropped to the ground before her, ignoring the sharp pain from his leg that erupted as he did so, and lowered his chin to his chest. He met Étaín eye to eye, and that loving feeling was met with further sorrow when he saw the pain written plainly in her red-rimmed green eyes. She was hurting and he wanted nothing more than to make her hurt go away.

Without another second's thought, and without any hint of the hesitation he usually felt when being so close to Étaín, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around her trembling frame. She, he noticed, did not fight against him at all; she sank into his embrace, letting her tears fall freely against his shirt.

The girl molded against him, settling perfectly in his hold. Will held her tightly, afraid she would vanish if he loosened his grip, and imagined that it had been Étaín who came to him.

_And, well, with Jeff gone now… maybe she will_, he thought.

And then he hated himself for that, too.

* * *

Author's Note: _Look at that, it's Sunday again. Yeah!_

_Well, this chapter was a little strange, wasn't it? Couple references to the Beast plus another Conlon equals interesting times. Not to mention a new time period entirely, ouch. I hope it wasn't too confusing but, at least, now you know what I mean when I said that there would be quite a few flashbacks but not linear. I actually hope to have a story within a story when this is done; kinda like how you could look at the 2004 on one hand, and then all of the Conlons in order on the other. Should be fun, eh?_

_Well, I hope you enjoyed—and now you can, I don't know, review, maybe? It would be sweet ;)_


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